


Precious Youth

by INMH



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Family, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Kids, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-06 06:37:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/732548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/INMH/pseuds/INMH
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for the Les Miserables Kink Meme. “Why are there children sitting with Grantaire?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Precious Youth

**Author's Note:**

> [Link to the Les Miserables Kink Meme.](http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/11823.html)

“Why are there children sitting with Grantaire?”  
  
Enjolras heard Courfeyrac’s odd question as he was entering the room, and nearly bumped into Bahorel as he did; both Bahorel and Courfeyrac had stopped short in the doorway, observing the sight across the room with no small amount of confusion.  
  
Grantaire was sitting in a chair at one of the corner-tables with an infant somewhere bordering on the age of a toddler, and a little girl of perhaps four or five standing beside him.  
  
“Oh God.” Courfeyrac whispered, an expression of both mirth and horror slowly dawning on his face. “You don’t think they’re- _his_ , do you?”  
  
“I expect they are _his_ , but not in the way you think.” Enjolras assured flatly. At the back of his mind, though, he contemplated that Grantaire was twenty-five, and they certainly _appeared_ young enough to perhaps… No. Ridiculous. He shook away the idea without a second thought.  
  
“But who in their right mind would leave Grantaire in charge of children?” Bahorel wondered.  
  
“He looks sober enough.” Courfeyrac observed, squinting across the room at the drunkard. Enjolras frowned.  
  
“How can you tell?”  
  
“Because he looks miserable, that’s how.” Courfeyrac muttered. He then raised his voice as he started towards the table. “Grantaire! You’ve brought friends! Though I believe the one on your lap is not quite of drinking age yet.”  
  
Grantaire’s smile was wan, and now that he took a closer look, Enjolras _could_ tell that Grantaire was not only sober, but likely still coming off of a serious hangover. His voice was fairly hoarse as well once he spoke. “Friends,” he glanced at Enjolras, “And Enjolras.” Enjolras glared. “Oh be _easy_ , it was a joke. This is my niece, Élisabeth,” Grantaire gestured to the little girl, “And my nephew, Martin. Say hello, Élisabeth.”  
  
The little girl, small and delicate and dark-haired, gave a sweet smile and a little curtsy. “How do you do?”  
Courfeyrac laughed delightedly. “Good evening, mademoiselle! I trust you are well?”  
  
“I am, monsieur.” She offered the same greeting to Bahorel, and then turned to Enjolras, blinking up at him sweetly. “How are you, monsieur?”  
  
Enjolras was suddenly stricken with something that he very rarely felt: Uncertainty. Having grown up an only child with cousins all older than himself, the youngest child that Enjolras had interacted with in some years was Gavroche- and to be frank, the young urchin was capable of being more mature than some of the members of the ABC. “I am… Well. It is good to meet you, Élisabeth.”  
  
Élisabeth fluttered her eyelashes at him and smiled charmingly. Maybe it was his imagination, but Enjolras would swear that Grantaire had just rolled his eyes. On his lap, little Martin was watching the newcomers with interest, but seemed otherwise uninterested in greetings (or was possibly too young to manage them), something that gave Enjolras untold relief.  
  
“Élisabeth.”  
  
“Yes, uncle?”  
  
“You may walk around the room. You may not leave the room. You may not bother anyone, and you may not pick up or touch anything that is not meant to be picked up or touched.” The look Grantaire gave her was deadly serious. “And don’t give me that ‘But I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to!’ line. You’re a smart girl, you know what you are and aren’t supposed to touch.”  
  
“Yes, uncle.”  
  
“Off with you, then.” Grantaire dismissed her, and Élisabeth skipped off to explore the room. His still somewhat bemused friends took their seats, and by some poor luck Enjolras ended up next to Grantaire and his nephew. Bahorel immediately leaned forward and lowered his voice.  
  
“How in the _hell_ did you get stuck playing nursemaid?”  
  
“They’re my sister’s children.” Grantaire grunted, shifting Martin on his lap. “And a word of warning to all of you: My niece is a little imp who will more than happily burn down the building if left entirely to her own devices, so don’t be deceived by that saccharine greeting she gave you. She’s brought better men than yourselves low with that act.”  
  
“Better men than us!” Courfeyrac scoffed. “Is she really that bad?”  
  
“I’m afraid so. My brother-in-law spoils her rotten.” Grantaire muttered, fingers twitching as though he would dearly love a bottle at that moment. “She is highly unaccustomed to hearing no from him, and unfortunately my sister is only slightly better.”  
  
“You seem to make up for it.” Enjolras remarked. He wasn’t certain that he had ever seen Grantaire so soberly authoritative with anyone before. Grantaire, without his usual amount of alcohol to give him boldness, turned a little red under the first positive observation Enjolras had made of him in a while.  
  
“I have to. She’d bury me alive if I didn’t lay down the law with her.” He mumbled. “And my sister would- God, you don’t even want to know what she would do. It would make a trip to the galleys look like a pleasant summer holiday.”  
  
“Well, at least this one seems easy enough!” Bahorel remarked, reaching around and lightly poking Martin in the stomach. The child chortled and smiled in response, and Grantaire looked almost dreamy.  
  
“He’s wonderful- though to be fair, he hasn’t quite mastered walking yet, and so preventing him from doing things he shouldn’t is much easier. I swear on my life, if he ends up as troublesome as his sister I will be forced to dig my heart out with a rusty spoon.”  
  
It was likely out of a desire to pursue Bahorel, who was sitting between Enjolras and Courfeyrac, but Martin evidently decided that he would like very much to lean over from Grantaire’s lap and make an attempt to climb onto Enjolras’s. “Ah-” Was all Enjolras offered in protest, hands up, uncertain if he should guide him back towards Grantaire or let him keep climbing or brace him so he didn’t fall-  
  
Bahorel, Courfeyrac, and Grantaire in particular seemed horribly amused at his tension, and snickered at their normally composed leader. “Don’t worry, Enjolras, he’s not teething- at the moment, anyway. He won't bite.” Grantaire remarked, grinning broadly.  
  
“What do I do?” Enjolras hated the nervous note in his voice, but his unease around children did not mean that he wanted to do something wrong and either alarm or allow harm to come to one either.  
  
“Nothing! It’s all right, I’ve got him.” And indeed, Grantaire was still supporting Martin from behind. All the same, Enjolras was stiff as the infant clambered onto his lap, and it only got worse when little Martin evidently decided that he was content where he was and stayed there.  
  
“Enjolras! Enjolras!” Courfeyrac was almost crying with laughter. “How can you be ready to be shot at on the barricades if you tremble at the sight of little children?”  
  
“Be quiet, you.” Enjolras growled, though he jerked in surprise when Martin giggled at him.  
  
“You’d think someone had dropped a snake on his lap!” Bahorel wheezed, pounding his fist on the table. Despite their raucous laughter and noises, Martin didn’t seem even remotely bothered.  
  
And Grantaire, _he_ was positively smug. “Oh, Enjolras, if you think _he’s_ terrifying I won’t even consider allowing you a conversation with _Élisabeth, you’re not to put anything in your mouth!_ ” Grantaire’s voice became sharp as a whip-crack, enough to startle his friends and cause the little girl to immediately drop the broken smoking-pipe that she had found on the floor. She folded her arms behind her back and widened her eyes in a portrayal of sheer innocence (bringing a sudden familial resemblance to life as she did), but Grantaire beckoned her over to him nonetheless. “Élisabeth.”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Nothing but food goes into your mouth. You are most certainly old enough to know that already.”  
  
“Yes, uncle.”  
  
“Do it again and I’ll bring you straight back home.”  
  
“Yes, uncle.”  
  
“Go on, then.” And she went back to exploring the room. Grantaire turned back to his friends with a moody look. “She’s five.” He muttered in a low voice. “ _Five._ She knows not to put things in her mouth by now. She learned when she was _three_. She does it simply to see what I’ll do.”  
  
“How often are you- _graced_ with your sister’s children’s presence?” Bahorel intoned lightly. Grantaire rubbed his eyes, both hands free now that Martin was completely on Enjolras’s lap and tugging with the blond’s cravat (Enjolras was as unmoving as the marble Grantaire often accused him of being made of).  
  
“Not too often. They live about two hours- on foot, anyway- outside of the city, and as you can imagine travel with two small children-” The dark look he shot in Élisabeth’s direction made it clear that he only meant one, “-is a bit difficult. More often than not I visit them, which means I rarely end up caring for them on my own.”  
  
“And what an experience that must be.” Enjolras muttered, eyes locked on Martin as the baby continued plucking at his clothing, inspecting it as though Grantaire wasn’t wearing essentially the same thing but in different colors.  
  
“Do you not like children, Enjolras?” Grantaire sounded amused rather than offended.  
  
“I don’t dislike them.”  
  
“That doesn’t quite answer my question.”  
  
“I am inexperienced with them.” Enjolras clarified, becoming even more uncomfortable as Martin began to pull himself into a standing position by using his jacket as leverage. “I’m not around children much.”  
  
“Ah, such are the blessings of seven little brothers and sisters.” Courfeyrac said with a wry smile. “I don’t know what it is, but none of them ever gave me as much as a spot of trouble. I played with them, spoiled them rotten when I could, and in turn became accustomed to being treated like a giant stuffed bear.”  
  
“That’s positively nauseating, Courfeyrac.” Bahorel chirped brightly before standing up to fetch drinks. “Grantaire, are you drinking?”  
  
“What do you think?” Grantaire snapped, an uncharacteristic acid dripping from his voice.  
  
“Sorry, sorry! Just checking!”  
  
He turned and left, and Enjolras was glad, because Martin had chosen at this point to start grabbing at Enjolras’s face with fascination. Enjolras remained perfectly still, unwilling to rebuke the child’s attentions but far too uncomfortable to play along with them. Grantaire and Courfeyrac kept up their chuckling, the former highly unwilling to relieve Enjolras of his nephew. “I think he likes you.”  
  
“I think he’s an infant and is interested in everything that moves.” Enjolras muttered, wincing when Martin finally succeeded in grabbing a loose blond curl and tugged on it with surprising strength.  
  
“No, no, he only gets grabby with people he likes.” Grantaire assured. “He’s bored with me now, but I guarantee you he wouldn’t stop climbing all over me last night. Ah, Martin-” Finally, he reached over and intervened, pulling Martin’s back down into a sitting position on Enjolras’s lap. The child had just been about to stick the hair he had grabbed onto into his mouth, and Grantaire evidently felt like taking mercy on him. “No, no. We don’t eat hair. Especially Enjolras’s.”  
  
“Thank you.” Enjolras sighed, setting his hands awkwardly on his legs and trying not to come into any more contact with Martin than he had to.  
  
“Oh, believe me,” Grantaire groaned as Bahorel returned and set a mug down in front of Courfeyrac. “You don’t know _Hell_ until you’ve had to clean slobber out of your hair, and _ÉLISABETH!_ ”  
  
The next thing they knew, Grantaire was almost vaulting over the tables to grab his wayward niece, who had removed a newly-lit candle from its holder and was rolling it between her fingers. Evidently, he had not been joking when he had said that she would easily set the building on fire. Grantaire pulled the candle from her grasp, stuck it back in the holder, and then plucked her off the chair she had been sitting on and carried her back to the table. “That’s it- we’re leaving.”  
  
It was then that Élisabeth finally transformed into the child that Grantaire had warned them of: Her expression grew tempestuous, mouth set into a deep frown, and she balled her little hands into fists as she stomped her foot. “ _No!_ ”  
  
“ _Yes_.” Grantaire snarled, the fury in his tone belying the gentle way he removed Martin from Enjolras’s lap (causing the blond to let out a long sigh of relief). “I warned you before we came, I warned you when I sent you off on your own, I warned you _yet again_ when you picked up that pipe, and I am out of warnings. We are going back to my flat, and we’re staying there until your mother comes to get you.”  
  
“ _NO!_ ” Élisabeth screeched, this time attracting the attention of others in the room.  
  
“One more word, and so help me you’ll be going straight to bed when we get back.” Grantaire threatened. This seemed to work: Élisabeth stomped her feet a few more times before offering a sound ‘harumph’ and crossing her arms sullenly. She did not, however, say a word.  
  
All in all, it was a stunning display, a side of Grantaire that none of them had seen before. Enjolras, Courfeyrac and Bahorel watched with the awkwardness that friends have when watching friends discipline their children, but also with awe as they had never seen Grantaire so composed or, as Enjolras had thought earlier, _authoritative_.  
  
And God help him, Enjolras was very intrigued by it.  
  
“Sorry,” Grantaire said tightly, hefting Martin onto his hip and pulling his jacket and Élisabeth’s cloak off of the empty chair to his other side. “It would seem that I have to cut this visit short.”  
  
“Perfectly all right, friend. I’m sure you’ll have a lovely evening at home.” Courfeyrac’s smile was just this side of shit-eating, and Grantaire seemed to be very close to offering him a rude gesture in return.  
  
“Goodbye, all.” He started to walk away, and had to quickly move a little further away from Enjolras as Martin attempted to reach out and grasp the man’s hair again. Once they had left, the three turned back to the table and Enjolras straightened his clothing from where Martin had pulled on it.  
  
“Ooh, but she’s a fiery little thing.” Bahorel said with a shake of his head as he sipped from his mug. “She’ll be a hell-raiser when she’s grown, that’s for sure.”  
  
Courfeyrac knocked mugs with him. “To Grantaire: May he survive any further encounters with his little niece.” And then his lips quivered. “And to Enjolras: May no children other than Gavroche approach him at the barricades, else he might fall into a fit and lead us all to ruin.”  
  
“I will ruin _you_ if you speak of this beyond today, Courfeyrac.”  
  
-End


End file.
